


The Only One Left

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac





	The Only One Left

“I'm cold.” 

Harry thinks he's never been warm since Sirius died. Since that moment when he watched Sirius's body make that long arc and fall through the veil. There are veils in his dreams now, veils that when pushed aside reveal either nothing at all or horrors which live on in his daytime moments as shadowy threats, the detail gone but the emotion remaining.

“Yes.” Remus has grown years older in just a few weeks. “Come in.”

He turns around to put a kettle on, but Harry has caught at the back of his robes and holds on as if for dear life.

“Remus, please,” he begs.

“I can't bring him back,” Remus says dully.

“I just want you to hold me.” Harry bites his lip to stop it trembling. “Please?”

“Harry – I can't.” There are too many emotions involved, of love and loss, anger and distress.

“You're the only person left,” says Harry with aching sadness.

“Yes.” 

And Remus turns from the kettle, and envelops Harry in his arms, because it's true – it's true for Remus, too. James gone, Sirius gone, Peter worse than gone: all that is left is Harry, James's son. Harry's head has bowed down onto Remus's shoulder, and they are silent, silent – mourning their dead. It is difficult to spot the precise moment when grief turns to desire, when the bodies shift against each other with another emotion altogether. Harry lifts his head again, and kisses Remus with a fumbling need that Remus echoes in his response. Harry pushes closer, drawing himself up against his ex-teacher; and Remus's hands slide over Harry's shoulders and down his back, cupping his arse and drawing him in. There's a few seconds where erection rubs against erection, where loss and grief and _appropriacy_ are all lost in desire.

The kettle hisses as it boils, and Remus, face flushed, turns away.

“I'll make tea,” he says.


End file.
